


Plus Doux Que Le Vin

by daphnerunning, Galiko



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: F/M, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 11:52:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galiko/pseuds/Galiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being the queen of a successful (albeit fledgling) nation means quite a few things, but among the most annoying: suitors. Fortunately, Sinbad’s most loyal advisor is just as irritated by them as she is, and really and truly thinks his queen should pass until a “most exemplary” example comes along. A pity she thinks she has that example right in front of her already.</p><p>Ja’far/Fem!Sinbad. Married couple bickering, and a bit of smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plus Doux Que Le Vin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Relenita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Relenita/gifts).



Ah, men are tiresome. 

 

Sinbad drapes herself sideways over the throne, watching the last “messenger” retreat from the hall with a long, drawn-out sigh. They _never_ learn what kind of person she is, apparently, because they keep coming.

 

They come from every corner of the globe with hands outstretched, talking about her beauty, talking about her talent, her skill, her power if only she could be _tamed_ a little. They offer her golden gifts as tokens of marriage--as if she can’t conquer any dungeon, any _country_ if she wanted and take all the gold for herself! Some of them fall at her feet, telling her to make them a slave, when she’s conquered seven dungeons and established a country just so all men in it could be free.

 

“Ja’faaaaar,” she calls, hanging nearly upside-down off the edge of the throne until her hair brushes the floor, “bring some wine when you come in. That last one gave me an awful headache.”

 

"Are you certain you aren't already drunk, my queen?" 

 

The drawl of that title is a sarcastic one at best, especially when Ja'far's head pokes in for the briefest of moments to catch a glimpse of the way Sinbad sprawls over her throne. _Honestly_ , the woman could hold herself with a bit more grace.

 

… That being said, if she were any normal, _proper_ woman, he'd have reasons in spades to worry more. 

 

"If the answer is 'yes', then you certainly don't need more. If it's 'no', then let's keep it that way," he briskly adds, stepping entirely into the throne room with a snort. "If you're done seeing your suitors for the day, then there are a dozen other things that need to be done." 

 

“So cruel! And after I’ve just spent all day humoring these sad fools who want me to sit primly at their sides.” Sinbad flops off the throne, feet hitting the floor gracefully as she stands, stretching. “You should make it up to me for being so accommodating. Let’s grab the boys and go drinking!”

 

"I would like it if you sat primly at my side and did paperwork," Ja'far deadpans. For what feels like the millionth time in his life--probably closer to the billionth--he bites back the urge to tell her to _put some proper clothing on_. That strip of cloth around her chest doesn't exactly hide much. "Startling, how you are so accommodating to random men and not to my requests."

 

“That’s because they bring me presents, even if I don’t want them, and all you do is tell me to do work. Also, they’re not my men.” She grabs him around the waist with a strong arm, barely resisting the urge to dip him. He’s just such a _little_ thing, even if they’re of a height. “Ahh, I wish I had a waist like yours.”

 

" _Must_ you grab me like that?" It should be more troubling that she is still taller than him, even after all these years, and has what many would consider to be an odd amount of strength for a woman to boot. Ja'far is used to it, of course, but it's when she grabs him and hauls him around that he can't help but be flustered still. 

 

Also, he's more than slightly relieved that she says _they aren't my men_ with such conviction.

 

"None of them were worthy of you, that much is certain," he sniffs, placing his hands upon her arm in an attempt to unwind it. "You should stop entertaining them if you hate it so much, don't get their hopes up. It might start a war someday." 

 

“Not entertaining them could start wars,” she points out, and gives him a pointed kiss on the mouth before releasing him, hopping back up onto the throne. She’d had it custom made, and made it too large for herself anyway. It’s hardly imposing to sit in what just looks like a fancy gold chair. “And if you _are_ my man, go get me a bottle of wine. Your king gave you an order.”

 

"I'm amazed they are even interested in marrying a queen that refers to herself as a king." Ja'far sighs, again barely biting his tongue-- _sit more like a lady, close your legs, sit up, stop slouching, stop pushing your chest out like that, can't you be a little bit more refined_ \--before simply turning to get the damned wine. 

 

Sometimes, it's not even worth arguing. Now is certainly one of those times, and Ja'far supposes he is just as awful as Sinbad is, giving into her like this. Upon pouring her goblet of wine and pushing it into her grasp, Ja'far sighs again, dropping down onto the dais itself. "I guarantee none of those men would ever serve you wine so quickly and efficiently. Please be grateful." 

 

“Is that how attendants act in your home country?” she asks, half-intrigued, half-annoyed. Most of the annoyance melts away as she sips her wine, the heady dark tones infusing her palate and making the headache disappear immediately. “They dally about their business, then tell you you should be grateful to be served at all?”

 

She stretches out her legs, eyes flicking around the room. “It was never like this when we were free. No one bothered us about such trivial things as marriage then.” It had been better, the sun on her back and the sea spray on her face. Monsters and sharks hadn’t cared so much what was between her legs, just what blade she held, and every djinn on the jewelry bedecking her person had been just as pleased to serve a woman as they would have a man. “Tell me we make a difference here, Ja’far.”

 

"I'm afraid I simply make an awful attendant, my lady," Ja'far wryly says, sighing as he slowly lets himself tip to the side, leaning his head against the side of her throne no matter his previous irritation. She _does_ have a point. Truth be told, while Ja'far finds himself often stressed and terribly worried about her dalliances with other men, the proposals for marriage are a dozen times worse. There are a great number of men that simply want to _own_ Sinbad, and that _bothers_ him. Having fought and traveled at her side for so many years, the concept of Sinbad being owned and cowed by anyone is ridiculous at the very best, and to think someone that merely wears a king's crown would try and control her and her kingdom…

 

"We make a difference. And it annoys them all, you realize." Ja'far glances up, eyebrows lifted in vague amusement. "That's why they want to drape you in gold and plant a child within you, in hopes of making a _male_ version of you that will some day bring their own countries such prosperity. Hilarious, for one, to think you'd be so easily duplicated; even more so that having a prick makes a difference."

 

Sinbad lazily grabs for Ja’far’s thigh under the table, scooting over to cup him between his legs for a brief moment. “Doesn’t make too much a difference to you, does it?” she teases, draining her goblet and holding it out to be refilled.

 

"Please stop," Ja'far calmly requests in the tone of someone very long-suffering, even as he pours her wine, unfaltering.

 

“Ahh, you never let me have any fun. Ja’far is always so mean to me.” Without sounding put-out at all, Sinbad takes another drink, starting to cheer up as she surveys the hall. “I heard the people of this region have a fertility festival around this time of year. Am I insulting any pagan gods by refusing to have a child again this year?”

 

"Do you believe in any pagan gods? I know you don't, so the answer is 'no.'" Ja'far sighs, giving into the urge to pour himself a cup of wine. Honestly, if this is going to continue and he isn't allowed to work, then he might as well do _something_. "At your age, though, not having a child already is unheard of regardless."

 

Sinbad eyes him, golden eyes narrowed. “Did one of the children put stinging nettles in your tea again, or are you being unpleasantly cruel for a special reason?” she asks, resting elbows (and breasts) on the table to rid her back of the strain. “I just want to know if I’ll be offending the people who _worship_ those gods. I might have to reinvent the holiday.”

 

"Or just have a child before you go entirely barren." They are not going to start talking about the nettles again. "If you aren't to marry, at least pick a man of exemplary quality and make use of him to make an heir for your country." 

 

“Ohh, are you volunteering?” The idea of marriage makes her shudder, but having a child might not be so bad. At least that would make a lot of sex without having to worry about her moontimes, and all the healer’s wretched drinks.

 

Ja'far stares back at her blankly. "I said exemplary quality."

 

 _Oh, don’t play with me, boy._ “And I said you.” Sinbad looks at him, one eyebrow raised. “It would at least get rid of the men who think I’d be a good wife for a proper pious nation. And oh, it would spit in the faces of _everyone_ royalty! Shit, now I want to.”

 

"Um--" What in the world has he started now? Ja'far stares for a moment longer before blinking fast and firmly shaking his head. "Pick someone else. I am _hardly_ suitable to be a father--and I'm not sure what standard you hold 'exemplary' to, but _honestly_ , Sin--"

 

Sinbad waves that away. “That’s even better. Who cares who the father is, when the mother is a king? Besides, I’ve been wanting an excuse to tie you to my bed and ride you stupid for a month.” Her eyes glitter, and she laces long fingers together. “Or do you deny your king?”

 

Ja'far's mouth opens, then shuts again, a noise strangled in his throat as he wavers between stressed and disbelieving and utterly flustered all at once. "You're not a _king_ , you're a _queen_ , at least use the right _term_ \--and--I--I believe I'm allowed to refuse this sort of thing! Please think of how this would damage your reputation!"

 

“Just a minute ago you said that having a child would be more helpful to my reputation!” Sinbad argues, filling up her own wine glass from the bottle, taking a large gulp. “Besides, I’m already the king of Sindria, I don’t really need to worry about my reputation for being a flawless maiden. Anyone who wants that would be disappointed in any case. Ahh, I bet our child would have freckles!”

 

" _Queen_ ," is the helpless correction once more, and Ja'far groans as he drops his head into his arms. "I take it all back, stay barren. The idea of you being with child is far too stressful." 

 

Sinbad moves around the table in a flash, sliding a strong, tanned leg over Ja’far’s lap and settling herself there, arms around his neck. “I’d be an excellent mother,” she decides, twining her fingers together. “I’d teach it how to ride and sail and drink. And you could teach it how to be sour and unpleasant and quiet and murdery.”

 

"Those are not the things a mother should teach their child!" Ja'far protests, a flash of panic sliding over his face as he strangles down another thoroughly unhappy noise and leans back just enough to avoid a face full of Sinbad's bosom. "You'd be an awful mother if those are the things you'd want to teach it--culture is fine, but training it to be a drunkard? And I certainly wouldn't teach it to be _murdery!_ "

 

“Murdery is a compliment!” Sinbad leans back, using Ja’far’s neck as leverage as she grabs for her wine goblet, taking a sip and leaning down to seal her lips to Ja’far’s, letting him drink from her tongue. “I’ll teach my daughter to survive in a world of men, and my son to survive in a world of monsters. Same thing, sometimes.”

 

Ja'far _tries_ not to let himself be kissed. It's a losing battle as always, especially when Sinbad is feeling this insistent, and so a sort of whimper loses itself against her lips when wine spills over his tongue. "M… must you?" he weakly attempts, coughing a little as he pulls back, lips red from the wine. "Surviving is one thing, but what you're describing hardly seems like that!"

 

“Ah, well, you caught me,” Sinbad admits. “I don’t just want to survive, and nor should any child of mine.” She leans down close, forehead touching Ja’far’s, eyes locked on his. “This world is huge, magical, full of mysteries. I want to taste them all. I want to carve my name into time. I want children to grow up waving little sticks and chasing their friends through the streets pretending to be me. And I want to leave everything in the world better for having been here.” She grins, undulating her hips on his thighs. “Why shouldn’t I pass that on like some pass on necklaces and titles?”

 

"You're already a woman that's conquered seven dungeons--that's quite a few _carvings_." Ja'far sucks in a slow, measured breath--at least, he tries to. It's easier said than done when he has a lap full of Queen Sinbad, wriggling on him unabashedly. His eyes dart desperately to the throne room's doors. "You know, twenty minutes ago, you didn't _ever_ want children." He clearly needs to stop suggesting things. Sinbad always takes them way too seriously. 

 

“I know. Strange, how one good idea from a trusted friend can change the scope of the future.” She rests two beringed fingers on his face, tilting his head up to face her. “Tell me honestly,” she says softly, meeting his eyes. “Don’t tell me about honor or propriety or politics or anything like that. Just tell me. Do you want to see your child grow in my belly?”

 

A hard swallow follows. "You can't just _ask_ things like that," Ja'far tries to protest once more. "Think about how it affects the person you're asking. This isn't a spur of the moment thing to debate." 

 

“Why not?” Sinbad leans down, mouthing a kiss to the side of Ja’far’s neck, entirely aware that she isn’t playing fair. “Some of my best decisions were made in the blink of an eye. Like jumping back from a blade, that’s usually a good decision. Just think about how I’d look, swollen with your seed, hmm?”

 

"Please consider how miserable you'd be--no drinking, the sickness that comes with it--" Ja'far chokes down another noise, and desperately attempts to banish the image from his mind. To be honest, he never really _looks_ at women, or men, or anyone. Bodies aren't a thing that interest him, unless they are in the way, or--

 

Well.

 

Sinbad.

 

That's the problem. 

 

"It isn't a spur of the moment thing to debate because it's another _life_ , Sin." He sucks in a steadying breath. "Honestly, I thought you'd know by now that I'm not usually in the business of _giving_ life, nor do I think myself very good at it." 

 

“If you were in the _business_ , I wouldn’t have asked you,” Sinbad informs him, rolling her eyes. “Sounds like an odd, slow business. Not a lot of custom, I imagine.” 

 

She sighs, shoving him back into his chair, and stands, downing the last of the wine. “I’m going out tonight. I’ll try not to bother you with such strange requests anymore, you look like you’re going to have a goddamn aneurysm at the idea of taking me to bed.”

 

Ja'far sinks back, equal parts relieved and frustrated. That tends to be a default response that he has when it comes to Sinbad. "I'm not going to have an _aneurysm_. Sin, really," he mutters, shutting his eyes briefly. "The idea was ridiculous to begin with. Choose a better man to roll around with, give your child some _proper_ heritage, not the blood of some backroads assassin's."

 

“And a Partevian street rat,” Sinbad reminds him. “Honestly, Ja’far, when have you ever known me to care about something stupid like that? I won’t have a child with anyone but you, I’ve decided.”

 

"A Partevian street rat turned king-- _queen_!" Dammit, now she has _him_ doing it. Ja'far exhales a long, aggravated sigh as he stands, smoothing his robes from where she's been climbing upon him. "Please don't make such a decision. Think of Sindria, at least." 

 

“Sindria would love it,” Sinbad says almost accusingly, pointing a finger at Ja’far, “and you know it. If I were to stand out there and laugh and tell them all this was joyous news, they’d all cheer for me. No one _cares_ here, Ja’far! I built a country where no one has to care about status, and you try to get me to feel bad about my child’s parentage before it even exists?”

 

"I'm not trying to make you feel _bad_ , I'm just… trying to make sure your child has the best possible… future… opportunities… everything," Ja'far attempts, _trying_ not to shrink back. _I just can't imagine a child of_ my _blood doing you any favors, that's all._ Saying that would sound a bit more than ridiculous, so there's really no help for it.

 

Sinbad steps onto the chair, hands planted on her hips as she looks down at Ja’far. “As if being of my blood won’t be all the future opportunities it needs?” she demands, and laughs. “Any child of mine will go out and grab life by the balls, Ja’far. You should know that.”

 

Ja'far stares back up at her, folding his arms over his chest. "What if it inherits all of my personality traits?" he flatly inquires. "Or worse--what if it wants to be an _archiver_ , and burns easily in the sun, and wants nothing to do with swordsmanship and instead favors ink and parchment?"

 

Sinbad looks scandalized, barely refraining from clutching at her heart in feigned horror. Then, she laughs. “Then you’ll get an apprentice, and we’ll try again. No sow throws only runts, eh?”

 

"Are you implying I'm a runt?" 

 

Sinbad peers at him, inspecting. “Short, skinny, pale, doesn’t want to play in the sunlight--yeah, I’m calling you a runt.”

 

Ja'far stares back at her, eyebrows lifting. "There are two schools of thought I can use to reply to that. One--you want to roll around with something like me, with that description? Two--describing me like that is supposed to make me want to put it in you?" 

 

“Ah, you already want to put it in me,” Sinbad teases, giving up being hard to get and simply plopping back in his lap, tugging his face down to her chest. “You might be a funny runty indoor thing, but you’re still a man. You’re _my_ man.”

 

"You're going to suffocate me." It's a muffled protest, and not one Ja'far puts much effort into, honestly. It's hard to when they get to this point, and Sinbad is less annoying and _slightly_ more endearing, and Ja'far sort of likes the possessiveness with which she grabs at him and calls him things like that. He sighs, letting his hands lift to drop upon her hips. "I am not a funny runty indoor thing. I'm your advisor."

 

“Don’t worry,” Sinbad assures him, “you can be both.” Then she kisses him, full lips supple against his thin dry ones, and _hopefully_ that will shut him slightly up.

 

 _I don't want to be both_ is the huffy protest he wants to say, and there's that little irritable swell of regret that he gave her _any_ leverage at all. Ja'far sighs out through his nose and resigns himself (without feeling _too_ terribly resigned, to be honest) to being kissed, his fingers slowly splaying themselves over her back, a little tug pulling her forward deeper into his lap.

 

Sinbad huffs out a long breath, fingers twining in his hair, knocking his keffiyeh to the ground as she slips her tongue into his mouth, a hand sliding down to squeeze his ass. “Mmm, I did a good thing the day I grabbed you off the streets, didn’t I, boy?” she teases, eyes alight.

 

Ja'far tells himself he's not going to squeak or make any other number of undignified noises. It doesn't _quite_ work that way, not when Sinbad is as grabby as ever and did her hands _really_ have to go there? "You are the worst, most awful pervert," he manages, glowering up at her as he shifts back in his seat slightly, trying very hard not to think about how hard he is just because of her grabbing at him. "If a man said that, I'd get cold chills." 

 

“Oh, as if I’d go around snatching up likely young men and women if I were a man,” Sinbad scoffs, pawing her way under his shirt. He’s got such a _nice_ chest, and cute pink nipples that she can’t help but pinch and rub, eyes locked on his face to watch his reactions, delighting as he squirms under her touch. “What are you going to do with your perverted king, hmm?”

 

" _Queen_ ," is the flat correction to follow, no matter the hitch in his breath when her fingers _pull,_ and really, that's terribly unfair. Is Sinbad allowed to do that? Certainly not, what with how cross Ja'far is with her. A huffing exhale, and Ja'far stands, tipping her back over the table with a frown, his hands planting to either side of her shoulders as he looms over her. "You're a woman and my _Queen_ , and I like that about you. Please at _least_ refer to yourself as that in bed… or table, whatever," he adds in a mutter. 

 

 _I could still have you over that table_ , she thinks gleefully, undulating her hips in a way that usually drives men wild. “So take me to bed. Or take me to table, whatever. You can decide whether you want the seed to plant later, there’s a few days to decide.” She wraps her legs around his waist, skirt falling down so there’s nothing but the skin of her thighs and the thin fabric of her loincloth separating her from him, and she arches, nails clawing against his neck. “Serve your Queen, then.” She very carefully does not add, _Runt_.

 

Ja'far's eyes narrow, and he suddenly finds it very, very appealing to arch down and bite into the curve of her shoulder, sucking on that warm, sun kissed skin as his hips twitch forward, cock achingly hard as it presses against one of those strong thighs. "You'd just climb me the whole way down the hall if I tried to take you to a proper bedroom," he crossly reminds her, nipping again at the arc of Sinbad's throat as he yanks at the ties of his clothes, never more annoyed at the layers he wears than when Sinbad starts things like _this_. "I'm not certain you'd even like it more than this, anyway." 

 

Sinbad grins up at him through a moan, wriggling in self-satisfied pleasure at the hardness of him. There’s so much more _effort_ involved in getting Ja’far to this point than there is with anyone else, and god, that just makes it so much more satisfying when she does. “You’re right,” she sighs, back arching off the table, a quick tug enough to leave her bare of every item of clothing in record time. “I like the idea of you taking me on the table. You should do this at the festivals--ahh, don’t tease me, give me your mouth.”

 

It's actually astonishing how fast the woman can undress. He should be used to it by now, or at least less annoyed, more impressed. "I'm not going to do it at the festivals," Ja'far irritably snaps at her, huffing as he slithers down, pressing a delicate kiss to Sinbad's hip as his fingers curve into her thighs. The scent of her, heady and aroused, is thick in his nose, and his own cock twitches at the first slide of his tongue against her slit, a low groan swallowed in his throat as he nuzzles between her legs. 

 

The moan that leaves Sinbad’s mouth is anything but _ladylike_ as Ja’far’s face worms between her legs, soft and slick and far too delicious. Sinbad tries, she _tries_ not to crush his head between her thighs, but ah, she can’t quite help the instinct to squeeze them around his head, fingers in his hair. “Forget the festivals,” she breathes, undulating slowly against the touch of his mouth. “So long as you serve your queen here--ahh, good, let me feel your tongue.”

 

At least he has Sinbad calling herself 'queen' again. 

 

Then again, no _proper_ queen would be splayed across a table with her advisor's face between her legs. But--damn it, when has he _ever_ truly wanted Sinbad to be proper? A shudder rakes down Ja'far's spine as his mouth drags up, tongue slick and hot as it slides over her clit, his lips sucking afterwards when she bucks up. His fingers dig into her thighs to hold her still and _down_ when his tongue wriggles inside of her next, his own pulse thudding hot and fast with every twitch and squirm of her, and god, it's hard not to reach a hand down and touch himself with every lap of his tongue against her.

 

Ah, god, she’s going to come on his face. 

 

Sinbad groans, one hand flying back to grip the edge of the table, eyes locked on what she can see of Ja’far. His tongue drives her mad--so sharp in the throne room, this is a _good_ use for it, teasing her with a hint of girth, more eager and slick and _intimate_ than a finger, reminding her all the same of what’s to come. “Mm,” she croons, breathless and delighted, “you like the taste, love? Go on, show me you love it.” Her head lolls back, and she squeezes her eyes shut, tremors wracking her body, one hand coming up to squeeze and rub at her own breast. It’s a slow, building, shattering thing when she comes, riding out every wave against the smooth skin of her advisor’s face, every part of her shuddering in ecstasy. “D-don’t stop…”

 

Ja'far pulls back for only a second, a ragged breath sucked in through his nose as he sucks and licks at her through every tremor, lapping at every part that his tongue can reach as his fingers keep her thighs spread apart, digging little half-moons into taut skin. He finally pulls back when _he_ simply can't stand it any longer, his cock an aching reminder of how much he _needs_ , and his breath is ragged when he drags his kisses up to Sinbad's stomach, one-handedly fumbling with the fastenings of his clothing to free his cock. "You really are the _worst_ sort of woman, you know that?" he breathlessly manages, lurching up to bite the curve of one breast, unable to help himself. "Tell me again why I put up with you." 

 

Sinbad’s laugh is shaky, but her hands are steady on his shoulders, content enough to be a proper woman for now if it makes him feel like a man. She lets her legs fall open under his touch, every part of her feeling overly sensitive, sated and still craving more. “Come straighten me out,” she invites, a smile curving her lips as she urges him between her legs. The idea, suddenly, of carrying his child sounds like more than a joke; it sounds like a promise, and Sinbad shivers beneath his touch. “Just because I don’t like a man on my throne doesn’t mean I don’t want one between my legs. So long as it’s you.”

 

"You don't need a man on the throne." Ja'far's mouth drags along the curve of one breast, his hand sliding after his lips to cup and squeeze it, thumbing over a hard nipple. His other hand is insistent on her hips, tugging her just a bit closer to the edge of the table, and god, no matter the obvious strength through every muscle in her body, Sinbad is _soft_ , and every inch of skin is so very, very warm. "Though I _am_ honored you'd have me at your side," he murmurs, mouthing another kiss to the side of her neck, sighing as his cock slides against her, rubbing just before slowly letting it sink inside. 

 

Sinbad can’t bite back the groan that wells up in her chest. Her breath doesn’t feel like it belongs to her; with every movement of Ja’far against her she _writhes_ , breathes out, gives of her life to him and never wants it back. She takes, too. Every inch of the heavy, swollen cock sliding inside her is _hers_ , now, leaving a stretching, thorough fulness that makes her let out a decidedly unladylike sound. She wraps her arms around him, unable quite to help it when her fingers score down his back, leaving trails of red in their wake. “Always,” she gasps, lurching up to capture his mouth in a rough kiss. “You and me, Ja’far, just like this…”

 

Taking Sinbad like this is always _too much_. 

 

The way she pulls him in, grabs at him, everything so hot and slick inside of her and her hands and arms and legs so _insistent_ \--too much, all of it. Her mouth is even worse, with teeth and tongue enough to make Ja'far groan, to make his own part of the kiss rough and heated, breath hot against her lips when he draws back for just the quickest of breaths, all when his hands slid down to grab roughly at her hips, pulling her down onto his cock when he shoves up into her _hard_.

 

When his mind is an unsteady, shivery, unfocused thing, pretty much anything seems like a good idea--especially all of this.

 

The score of Sinbad's nails over his flesh makes him want to mark, too, and Ja'far's mouth tears from hers, teeth dragging over the arc of her throat, leaving sucking, lingering bites as he grinds his hips forward, eyes fluttering at the obscene slap of their hips together when he slides in _deep_. 

 

“Ah--” 

 

Sinbad chokes off a curse, wriggling up to angle her hips better, making sure Ja’far keeps driving into her _just like this_ , nails digging into his back. “There,” she pants, shoving the sweat-damp hair back out of her eyes with one hand, “just like that, take me hard--”

 

She squeezes down around him, eyes locked on his face when she groans. Ah, it’s almost as if that makes him swell in her, and he feels _good_ , the perfect size to fit into her and make her see stars. “Together,” she gasps, clawing and biting and _kissing_ , her kisses the most invasive marks of all. “Inside me, Ja’far, please--”

 

The request is enough to make him falter, but just for a moment. _What if_ , Ja'far dazedly thinks, _we did do something that utterly stupid for once?_

 

It wouldn't be the first time that his good judgment has been swayed, all courtesy of Sinbad's whims.

 

The way she squeezes around him, shudders and _quivers_ \--that makes what's left of his logical mind shut down, especially when he looks down at her, her chest heaving, those perfect, full breasts bouncing with each _hard_ slap of his hips, her eyes fluttering and cheeks flushed and the way she bites her own lip when he slides in just like she wants him to--

 

Ja'far groans, muffling the sound into her shoulder when he bites again, his hands grabbing up her sides, splaying over her ribs to hold her still as he buries himself in as deeply as he can, until _he_ aches at the sweet, hot clench of her and comes hard, breath ragged and catching in his chest as he spills inside of her. 

 

Sinbad sort of feels like she’s been coming forever. She rides out the storm, bucking as the next rippling slide of pleasure shocks through her, up her spine and down through her fingers, making her writhe and shudder as she pulls him further in. The fact that he _listens_ to her, that he gives her what she wants, that at least in some way, in some part of his brain, he wants it too.

 

That thought sends another spasm through her, this one tearing a low, trembling groan, and her arms close around his back, pulling lean muscles and taut, sweaty flesh down close, burying him in her chest. “My Ja’far,” she announces, panting. “Mine.”

 

Ja'far groans as he gives up, simply slumping forward and letting her grab and pull at him, the tired muscles of his body pretty much intent on giving out, anyway. "Continue suffocating me," he agrees, voice muffled into her chest, "and we'll even die together. How romantic." 

 

“What a baby,” Sinbad teases, rubbing her face against his hair before combing her fingers through it, finally getting it into a style she likes. “Want me to be on top next time? This seems to have been the end of you.”

 

He lifts his head a bit to glower at her. "I am not _so_ soft after spending countless hours within the archives, Sin. You are just…" _Something else entirely._

 

“Good.” She darts up to peck a kiss on his lips, pleased with herself. “If I’m going to be fucked over a table, I might as well be overwhelming, I guess. Even to a runty murdery indoor thing like you.”

 

"I'm going to make you swallow a bucket full of that stuff from the healers. Still saying things like that makes me certain you'd be a horrifying mother." 

 

“That’s fine,” Sinbad says sweetly. “I think I’d make a much better fun auntie. You can be the mother. Keep the healers away from me.”

 

Ja'far ponders this. "… You're not sweet enough to be an aunt. Try 'creepy uncle.'" 

 

“Do creepy uncles get to go out drinking with the boys and show up only to give candy and teach the kids how to sail and ride and kill things with swords?”

 

"You have literally just described a creepy uncle. That's it. That's the exact description." 

 

“Ah, perfect! So who has to carry it, then?”

 

"Don't be absurd." Ja'far snorts as he untangles himself from her arms. "I'm the one that does all the work around here, so if _someone_ is going to be laid up in bed, it might as well be you." 

 

“So mean!” Sinbad doesn’t bother rearranging herself, laying unconcernedly on the table with her legs spread, a thin trickle of liquid spilling from between them. “It might not take, you know. I’ve taken a lot of that stuff over the years. It’s just fun to think about.”

 

Ja'far spares one, long look at Sinbad before simply grabbing a discarded portion of his own robe and tosses it over her for _some_ sense of propriety. "Please don't remind me of your exploits. At this point…" He sighs, unsure if it's stress, or some odd, apprehensive sort of pleasure at the thought. Both seem to feel about the same, when it comes to Sinbad. "Well. Whatever happens, happens." 

 

She reaches out a hand, catching his and bringing it to her lips. “And whatever happens, I have you.”

 

"… That you do," he quietly agrees, a faint smile curving the corners of his lips as his fingers curl. "I will never leave your side."

 

 


End file.
